


every fibre torn

by silentsonata



Series: nice but inaccurate oneshots [16]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Branding, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-07 22:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21225083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsonata/pseuds/silentsonata
Summary: Some images are forever burnt into their minds.





	every fibre torn

“Angel, we’re not having this conversation.”

“Fine, we’re not!” Aziraphale snaps his fingers, and a seatbelt manifests onto Crowley, the first semblance of a safety precaution to have ever existed in the Bentley. There is no buckle, though, and no way Crowley can remove it from himself. The seatbelt seems to mould itself to the shape of his body, and he is well and truly stuck.

“What’s this all about? _S’my _car!” Silence. “Aziraphale!” Crowley manages to make him flinch, and there is a sense of sharp urgency in his invocation, a desperate prayer to a god without mercy, devoid of its usual affectionate undertones. Aziraphale turns his face away quickly enough to hide the apologetic expression that flashes across it.

“Sorry, dear. Since we’re not talking about it, I’m deciding that you can’t come with me. You’ll be safe here, I promise.” With that, Aziraphale pushes open the car door, stepping out as he avoids Crowley’s grasp. “My battle, not yours.” The Bentley’s door thumps shut with the finality of a divine order, and Crowley is left alone again, screaming Aziraphale’s name in vain as he disappears into the corporate building.

Must there be such distinct boundaries between them?

Everything that is Crowley’s is unabashedly Aziraphale’s: his fears, loves, scales and all. Perhaps this is not reciprocated. Aziraphale gives part of himself to everyone, and perhaps Crowley is not special, not in the way that only Aziraphale is privy to Crowley’s raw self. Despite this, he is still hesitant to reach and take Aziraphale for himself. If Crowley does so, he will become yet another demon tainting an angel, following his job description to the very letter, and he no longer wants to be the villain. Crowley no longer wants to be a demon. All he wants is to become Aziraphale’s.

Crowley doesn’t know how many minutes or centuries pass in the solitude that he is imprisoned in. When Aziraphale finally emerges into the softening light, he does not talk about what happened. He feels different, somehow, and Crowley is forced to act along in this façade, and the familiar drive to Aziraphale’s bookshop feels uncomfortably rehearsed.

He does not ask what happened, not out of fear, but out of respect for Aziraphale. He would be told with time. Crowley follows Aziraphale into the bookshop like a shadow that has been torn away from its owner. They remain in the thick silence, which hangs in suspension like a lead weight on a silk string, a delicate equilibrium that can be disturbed by even a wrong breath. Silence was once their friend, a comforting blanket where they did not need to seek affirmation from each other. Now, that very silence seeks to suffocate them.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale is the first to venture out into the frontier of conversation. “Come here, will you?” Crowley could not have reacted faster, as laboured as his footsteps felt. He was at Aziraphale’s side, ready, attentive, and teetering on the edge of fear what he was about to hear. But his ears are left waiting, and Aziraphale’s arms wrap around him instead.

The warmth fills up a cavity that Crowley hadn’t known was there. He holds Aziraphale close. There is a wince, a sharp intake of breath. “Angel?”

“Hurts.” Crowley begins to voice his worries. He is interrupted. “My back.”

There is nothing sensual or passionate about the way that Crowley almost rips Aziraphale’s clothes off him. Clothes can be fixed, can be miracled back, and no-one needs to know. His angel isn’t replaceable. His only fuel is panic, so strong that it is almost blinding, and as he stands over his masterpiece, torn to shreds, Crowley forgets how to breathe.

A wave of anger and _how dare they how dare they how dare they _shuts down every nerve in his body. The blackened flesh on Aziraphale’s bared back makes patterns of loops and curls, like a thorned crown on a martyr’s head. The serpent-shaped blackness winds down from his nape, over the line of his spine, and ends on his lower back, and its outer edges are red and inflamed. Aziraphale is branded.

“Is it really that bad?”

Crowley almost doesn’t hear him over his overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. He didn’t protect Aziraphale. He let the same people that hurt him do the same to the one he loves most. By letting Aziraphale be wounded in this way, he has broken the first ever promise he made to himself. _Never let Aziraphale become like you._

It is evident that it is his fault. The snake-shaped brand on Aziraphale’s back says it all. It screams at him that Aziraphale would have been better off without knowing him. At least one of them could have been happy. But Crowley, Crowley ruins everything he touches, doesn’t he? Crowley is selfish, isn’t he? Midas’ touch turns things to gold, and Crowley’s turns things to gravel, only useful for being crushed underfoot.

“It’s not, angel.” Crowley lies through his teeth. _It couldn’t be worse._ Seeing Aziraphale hurt, able to do little to nothing about it, causes him more pain than Falling a second time would. Time heals some wounds; it leaves others to fester and deepen. Now, the reminder that he is unwanted is stitched into Aziraphale’s very existence, and it is a scar that will never fade.

Little shivers of held-back sobs and a wavering voice are the only indications that Aziraphale is crying. “Hurts so much.”

Crowley guides Aziraphale’s hand to his face, brushing it over his own brand, a serpent that snakes down near his right ear. His yellow eyes shine with the intensity of molten gold, and his eyes are burning, burning as he tries to hold back his own tears. He is there to serve. It’s not about him.

“I promise, it’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> they lie where they fell, and they keep falling
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr!](https://silent--sonata.tumblr.com/)   
[Chat to me on Discord!](https://discord.gg/pTcajxx)   



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